Get Lucky
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine, pre-slash, doctor!Blaine] Sebastian's taken to the hospital after he passes out during lacrosse practice. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**author's notes:** prompted by **slythadorgirl**, thank youuu!

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**Get Lucky;;**

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The hit he takes to the knee barely registers, not when suddenly the entire world falls away from him and his head's spinning with a crippling loss of control. Unaware he hit the ground he tries to move but hands pin him down to the grass, and there's a distant echo of a deep voice familiar to him.

"Smythe!" it calls once his ears manage to bring it into focus, accompanied by fingers snapping. "Smythe! Gosh dang it, someone call an ambulance!"

"Coach, I'm fine," he drawls out, his voice slower than he's used to hearing it.

"My lilly white ass says you're fine," Coach Beiste answers, and once she pushes her hand down on his chest he can't move at all. "Stay down, we're taking you to the hospital."

That's how he ends up in a hospital bed in the local emergency room, his right knee throbbing painfully, but he's suffered worse injuries over the years, the real problem his eyes which refuse to focus on a single point. His head keeps swimming and he's shaky to the bones, and it's vaguely reminiscent of the heat stroke he suffered when he was five years old. But he hasn't been that careless in twenty years.

Coach Beiste hovers somewhere close, making calls to the sponsors who probably heard what happened at training; their star player passing out on the field warrants a certain amount of panic, one that's steadily settling underneath his skin because he can't stop the room from spinning.

The nurse comes in and checks his vitals, shines a light in his eyes that starts a headache, while an orderly (who doesn't even have the decency to be cute) puts some ice on his knee.

The wait drags on and on to the point where even his coach gets antsy, but he's grateful for the peace and quiet to shut his eyes for a while. Not that it helps with the dizziness.

"What in the hell is taking so long?" He's shocked awake at the sound of Beiste's voice. "It's been an hour!"

"You're the one who ordered the scan."

"The sponsors ordered the scan." Beiste points at him. "Didn't look like a hit you haven't taken before, but you went down hard, pretty boy. Better safe than sorry."

He swallows thickly, his mouth dry. "Why don't you go grab me some clothes?" he says, realizing he's getting kind of chilly in only his uniform. "Pick me up when I'm done."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Coach." He nods. "Like you said, nothing I haven't taken before."

Coach Beiste backs out of the room and he regrets his decision immediately–he has nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and his headache's getting worse, but the nurses don't allow him any medication until the doctor's seen him.

Another hour passes and his leg finally gets scanned, but when he's once again instructed to wait for the doctor to see him he begs the nurse for something to drink–he's probably dehydrated or something, that's why he passed out and it explains his dizziness. The nurse brings him a full bottle of water, before being left to his own devices.

He waits. He counts the squares in the ceiling, the intervals between every flicker in the lights, the amount of people who pass his room, and when a man in a lab coat finally does push through the door of his room he's ready to give him a piece of his mind and a very reasoned self-diagnosis.

But he doesn't get a word in. Contrary to what he expected his doctor's a young guy with a head full of dark curls. He's dressed in dark blue scrubs and the typical white coat, the last name 'Anderson' stitched above a breast pocket, a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

"Sorry for the wait, Mr Smythe," the doctor says, heading straight for the foot end of the bed to pick up his chart. He turns on the lightbox on the opposite wall and pins his scan underneath. "We're a little backed up today, I'm afraid," he says, back now turned to him as he studies the X-ray. "The good news is your scan looks fine, there's no fractures or fluid building up. And–"

Dr Anderson turns around, beautifully bright eyes going wide and skipping over his jersey. "Oh," he utters.

A smile slides to a corner of his mouth. "Oh?"

"I'm sorry," the doctor shakes his head, cheeks flushing a rosy red. "I didn't realize you were–_Sebastian_ Smythe."

He cocks an eyebrow. "You know of any other?"

Dr Anderson giggles and motions for the door, "It's just that the nurses were–" he says, before seemingly losing his nerve.

His eyes narrow, more than a little amused by the sudden turn of events. "They were what?"

"I'm a lacrosse–" the doctor starts, but checks himself, "Never mind," before changing gears again, scratching the back of his head.

He sits up straighter, more and more at ease, and not just because his doctor has turned out to be achingly good looking–the soft blush in his cheeks, the way his lips twitch with suppressed embarrassment, the clear giddy smile he tries to hide... Dr Anderson is a lacrosse fan.

"I'm worried about your blood pressure," Dr Anderson says, taking a few steps closer and pinching his wrist between his fingers–they're soft but cold against his flushed skin. "Are you on any medication?" he asks while checking his watch. "Prescription drugs?"

He shakes his head. "And I don't do any illegal stuff either, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't." The doctor smiles, scribbling something illegible on his chart. "Have you been experiencing any dizziness? Headaches?"

"No more than usual." He shrugs. "Coach has been pushing us pretty hard, with the World–"

"The World Cup," Dr Anderson interrupts, and nods, "of course", followed by a nervous giggle, his eyes downcast but lips curling with amusement. "Well, Mr Smythe–"

"Sebastian, please."

Dr Anderson's eyes find his, soft and gentle, and a hand squeezes at his arm. "Looks like you're suffering from good old dehydration," he says, and he can't even bring himself to brag about how he came to that conclusion all on his own. "Not uncommon among athletes, especially in this heat we've been having. I'll tell the nurses to start you on an IV."

His face falls, a brick pulling his entire body down to the bed. "A–" He can't even say it, panic ravaging through his body at the thought of the pin prick sting of a needle punching through his skin. "Can't I–"

Dr Anderson blinks up at him.

He tries to shrugs it off, voice shaking when he laughs, "Can't I just get an Aquarius or something?"

"That wouldn't be very professional of me." Dr Anderson's eyes narrow on his face. "You've been left in my care, it's my job to get you the best treatment I can."

He looks around the room, eyes unwilling to settle but for entirely different reasons–his heart starts beating at a faster pace and he breaks out in a cold sweat, "Well–" he says, feeling a hand over his left arm, where goosebumps have broken out all across his skin.

And maybe Dr Anderson realizes in that moment what's going on, maybe he can tell the signs or maybe his eyes actually spell out his fear, but he's respectful when he rounds the bed, "Tell you what," he says, "I'll put in your IV. I'm sure I can find something to distract you with."

He comes back with an IV kit and a bag of fluids, depositing everything on a small tray next to the bed. "And the nurses will be none the wiser."

He laughs, his entire body primed and shaking with nerves, thrown back into time, a five-year-old suffering from heat stroke and an inexperienced nurse incapable of finding a good vein–as far as childhood trauma goes it's no worse than the yearly visit to the dentist, but he's decidedly no longer at ease.

Dr Anderson rummages about next to him, hanging up the IV bag on an apparatus next to the bed, and soon he hears the distinct screech of him putting on latex gloves–he grabs his arm and binds a tourniquet above his elbow, fingers trying to locate a vein.

A cotton swab sweeps over his skin, cold followed by a very distinctive scent.

"Oh, God," he stutters, every muscle in his body tensing, a white-hot panic spreading up the back of his neck.

"Don't look at what I'm doing," Dr Anderson says. "Think about something else."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, stretching the fingers of his left hand, hoping it'll chase away the tension. He hears the sound of a package tearing and he just about crawls out of his skin. "What's your first name?" he asks in a rush.

"Blaine." Dr Anderson's voice comes calm and composed and he's grateful that he choses to play along–he really needs the distraction. "I'm a third year resident," Blaine adds. "And in my spare time I enjoy watching men getting sweaty while running around with a stick and a ball."

He laughs, enamored by Blaine's words, though he's left to wonder if he'd do this for any patient. "Tell me more."

"I'm–single," Blaine says. "And looking for that special someone to take me away from all this."

"Yeah? Someone you can play doctor with?"

"I don't know," Blaine muses. "I'm usually on the receiving end in the bedroom."

His eyes shoot open at the direct and clear innuendo, completely stunned for a few moments, until he hears the tourniquet snap and blood flows freer down his arm again.

"There. All done."

He looks down, the cannula inserted in his arm and taped down to stay in place. He didn't even feel the needle.

"That wasn't too bad was it?" Blaine adjusts the flow rate of the drip, and takes off his gloves. "I'm afraid I'm fresh out of lollipops though."

And at this point he's none too apprehensive about what's going on between them–Blaine might be a professional but he's clearly attracted to him and he's not too proud to admit he'd be more than willing to play doctor with this physician.

"How about your phone number instead?" he asks.

Blaine blinks and sputters, his lips forming around the same 'Oh' he'd uttered before, but one of his hands reaches down into his coat's pockets, pulling out a small notebook. "I don't normally do this," he says, writing down his number before tearing out one of the pages. "But since you were so brave."

"Cocky," he smiles. "I like that."

Blaine blushes another smile, "I'll come check on you in an hour."

Coach Beiste steps back into the room right on cue, carrying his gym bag, eyes flickering between him and Blaine. "Sorry I'm late," she says while Blaine backs out of the room, but quickly notices he's preoccupied by the digits on the piece of paper Blaine handed him. "If I didn't know better I'd say you took that hit on purpose. How do you find these guys?"

He grins. "Just lucky, I guess."

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